God Help the Outcasts
by broadwaybear
Summary: A prayer can help someone, even if you don't know who they are yet. This is not a songfic, but it is song-inspired.


A young Trisana Chandler looked up at high vaulted ceilings, the smell of old wood and burning candles filled her nose, and she could feel the age and the power of the building. A breeze blew past her and she heard a whispering voice; normally Tris tried to to block out the voices, knowing they were only a sign of her insanity, but this time the voice was one she recognized, Cousin Lena, her newest guardian.

"The little demon shouldn't even be here, this place is holy!" Tris heard Lena hiss, and she winced; the storm out side began to rain harder and lighting flashed. The storm had been hovering over the city since the day Tris arrived, one week ago.

"Maybe the church will purify whatever demon has possessed her." Caemen, Lena's husband, replied.

"I doubt it, her family has spent a fortune on exorcisms and mind-healers since the day she was born, nothing has ever worked." was her cousin's reply.

The voices stopped and Tris breathed a sigh of relief, she didn't want to hear anymore. The seven-year-old could not understand why they all hated her so much, she never did anything on purpose!

"Trisana!" this time the voice was neither a whisper nor carried on the breeze, Lena walked up behind her, "Caemen and I are going to talk to the priest. You will stay _here_!" Without waiting for a reply, Lena walked away and into another room, leaving Tris alone.

Tris sighed, she was already bored, her feet hurt, her dress was itchy, and she felt rather like someone had opened her up and taken everything out, leaving her empty and hopeless. With nothing better to do, she knelt at an alter, intent on praying and asking whichever deity this was to help her feel better.

Carefully watching those around her to make sure she did it right, Tris lit a small, white candle and, placing a hand on either side of it, bowed her head down until it touched the smooth, oak table before it, and she tried to find the right words.

"I need-" she whispered, then thought, _that's not right._

She tried again; "I want-" _That's not it either. What's the matter with me?_ Every time she began to pray for herself she saw a face; it was the face of someone she had never met, only seen once. When she had first come into the city, just as the storm started, she looked out the window of her cousin's carriage and seen a boy with dark, curly hair being pushed into the mud of by a shopkeeper. He looked dirty, even under the mud, his clothes could barely called such, and when his gray-green eyes met hers, he didn't even glare, just looked on, totally defeated and humiliated.

Tris realized he probably didn't have food to eat or even a place to sleep that night out of the rain. Suddenly she knew exactly what to say.

"I don't really know who you are, or if you even exist, and if you do, I don't know if you care; but if you are out there I want to ask you to listen. No one else does. I bet being a god is lonely, which makes us a like, because I'm lonely too.

"But I'm not really praying about me. I'm praying for someone else I think is lonely, another outcast, like us. Please show him mercy, nobody else is going to. Look after all those who are lost, the ones who have been forgotten, if you don't… no one will…"

Tris sighed and stepped away from the alter, blowing out the candle. And even though she didn't know if her prayer had done any good, she felt like someone had filled her up again. She felt hopeful, knowing she would make it, still praying the boy would, too.

When she looked up, out the window, the storm had finally passed.

-----*-----*-----

Miles away, in the city slums, a dirty, dark-haired boy called Roach looked up towards the storm clouds. His small shelter between two waste bins in an alley was soaked through by the rain, but when he looked up he saw the sky for the first time in a week. And though he was cold, dirty, and hungry he felt inexplicably happy and cared for and he knew that someone, somewhere was thinking about him.

That evening, as he walked down the streets, enjoying the last rays of sunshine and contemplating his odd feeling of comfort, he was barely even surprised when an old, kindly-looking man stepped out from his bakery and handed him a slightly burned loaf of bread, enough food for at least two weeks if Roach was careful. All he could do was send up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity, and whichever person, had cared for him that night…

_BBear here, this story is complete for now, but I may add another with Sandry and Daja. Let me know if you like that idea and if you don't I might anyway, so please read it..._


End file.
